by Jane Feather
Muhamed Alahma was waiting in the antechamber when the caliph appeared with his burden, Kadiga following as he had instructed.
“My lord caliph.” The physician bowed his venerable head, his beard almost sweeping the floor. “How may I be of service?”
“Come within and I will explain.” Abul carried Sarita into his own sleeping chamber and laid her down on the divan, saying quietly to Kadiga, “Remain with her while I talk with the physician. He will have questions for you later.”
“Why would he wish to question—” Sarita stopped speaking and closed her eyes as the terrifying rush of her heart began anew. Abul looked down at her, watching the painful struggles of her fragile body as it tried to accommodate what was happening to it. “Can you not help her?” he demanded of Kadiga.
The woman shook her head, biting her lip. But she leaned over Sarita and raised her shoulders slightly, taking her hand in a tight grip.
“What has she taken within her?” The voice of the physician spoke abruptly. He had come over to the divan without invitation and stood watching Sarita’s battling with an educated eye.
“We do not know.” Abul turned and gestured that he should move away from the bed. “I will tell you what I do know.”
Muhamed Alahma listened in grave silence. Then he listened as Kadiga detailed the symptoms, the slow development, the now rapid deterioration, and he shook his head. “Do you have the draught that contained the bane?”
Kadiga had brought it with her from the tower and now handed him the skin container. The physician emptied the contents into a lacquered dish. He sniffed, he poked with a small skewer, he held the liquid to the light, then he shook his head again. “I can tell nothing from this. But I can tell you, my lord caliph, that I know of such banes, and once they reach this stage, there is little hope of recovery.”
Abul’s heart squeezed, squeezed like a lemon, and the bitter juice of loss dripped into his veins. “You must do something,” he said fiercely. “I will not accept that there is nothing. There must be something you can administer to counteract the poison.”
Muhamed Alahma pulled his beard, frowning for such a long time that Abul thought that in a minute he would seize the old man by the throat and shake a response from him. “Sometimes,” the physician said finally, “there are things that work in such cases. But I cannot know what to administer if I do not know the nature of the bane.” He nodded reflectively. “Furnish me with the name of the bane, my lord caliph, and maybe I can do something.”
Abul stood very still. He felt Kadiga’s jump of fear beside him. Only one person could tell him what had been administered to Sarita. It meant he must act without premeditation, without preparation, without planning for the consequences, but he had no choice. “You shall have the name,” he said.
He sent for the vizier, who received precise instructions with an impassive countenance: an armed escort was to enter the seraglio, lay hands on the lady Aicha, and bring her to the Mexuar.
Abul returned to his apartments, where the physician was examining Sarita, who lay gasping for breath in a cold sweat of exhaustion. “I will prepare an emetic,” Muhamed Alahma said as Abul came over. “It will rid her of what poison lingers in the stomach. But there is little else I can do without the name of the venom.”
“You shall have that shortly,” Abul said with savage confidence. “Kadiga, you will need Zulema to assist you. I will have her summoned.”
Zulema arrived within minutes, and Abul left the two women and the physician to their grim work, going himself to the small mosque at the rear of the Mexuar to prepare himself for what he was about to do.
The arrival of the soldiers in the seraglio was heralded by an alarmed serving woman, who saw them approach the staircase to the jalousied balcony from the hall beneath. The chatter of the women was stilled, their various occupations abandoned as they covered their faces in haste, gazing fearfully at one another, stunned by such an unprecedented visitation. The caliph and occasionally the vizier were the only men ever to enter the seraglio. The women withdrew from the center of the room, standing against the walls, staring with their kohl-lined eyes as the soldiers in their steel-pronged helmets burst into the parlor, curved scimitars at their belts.
“Where is the lady Aicha?” The officer in charge spoke into the fearful hush, his voice grating like a knife on fine porcelain.
For a moment no one replied; then one of their number said hesitantly, “The lady Aicha has not yet come from her apartments this morning. The hour is still early.”
The officer turned to a serving woman staring wide-eyed from a corner. “Escort us to the sultana’s apartments.” The woman scuttled ahead of them down the corridor, pointing silently to the door that led to Aicha’s private chamber. “Announce us,” the officer instructed, reluctant despite his orders to intrude on the lady in her privacy. But the door opened before the woman could knock, and Nafissa, cloaked and veiled, stood there, barring the way.
“We have business with the lady Aicha,” the officer said curtly. “Move aside.”
“Who is it, Nafissa?” Aicha’s voice came from within, astonished at the sound of a man’s voice at her door.
“Soldiers, my lady.” Nafissa turned back, her lip trembling with fear.
Cold fingers marched down Aicha’s spine. What had gone wrong? How had she been betrayed? Had her message to her father been discovered? Her eyes shot accusingly to Nafissa. Only the handmaid knew her secrets, but the other woman’s fear was palpable, and Aicha knew Nafissa had not betrayed her.
“What do you want of me?” She tried to sound outraged at this intrusion.
“The lord Abul, lady, has commanded us to bring you to the Mexuar,” the officer stated without expression. He gestured to two of the soldiers, and they moved on the sultana, seizing her arms even as she cried out in fury, trying to free herself. But the officer had been told to lay hands on the caliph’s wife and bring her in that manner to the hall of justice, and the feeble protestations of a woman could not alter his orders or his intentions. He turned and left the chamber with the soldiers bearing the struggling sultana behind him, her cries shivering the frescoed walls of the seraglio and striking terror into the hearts of the other women at this horrifying reversal of fortune. If Aicha, so feared as she was, supreme among women, could be brought so low, then no one was immune.
Aicha ceased her struggles abruptly when she was hauled out into the sunlit Court of the Lions. Struggling only increased the indignity of her progress, and she walked upright between the guards, her eyes blazing with a near feral fury even as her head whirled in a turmoil of speculation as to what had led Abul to order this public disgrace. If he suspected treason, he would not deal with it in this way. She knew he favored soft steps when confronting and outsmarting his enemies, meeting the clandestine dagger with one as cleverly concealed. He would have to have incontrovertible evidence to treat his wife in this manner. But what? All she could think of was that he had discovered her correspondence with her father. But she had written only of troubles within the Alhambra, of her fears that the caliph might be weakened by his passion for his new concubine. She had been scrupulously careful to say nothing truly incriminating.
Indeed, she could almost defend herself on the grounds of legitimate concern for her husband …
Abul emerged from the mosque just before they brought Aicha into the Mexuar. He sat on the great carved throne of justice as impassive as a graven image, all emotion quelled, consumed by just one imperative.
Aicha felt her courage falter when she saw him sitting in judgment in the deserted hall, his hands resting lightly on the arms of the throne, his eyes somehow shrunk to black tips of fierce light, his mouth chiseled in stone. The guards brought her to the foot of the throne and, at a signal from Abul, released their grip on her arms, stepping back so that she stood alone.
“Tell me the name of the venom you have been administering to Sarita.” The demand was quiet, uttered in a voice that was unlike A
bul’s, cold and expressionless, utterly inflexible.
Aicha’s first reaction was one of triumph and relief. So that was what this was about. But there was no evidence to tie her to the Spaniard’s decline. No one, not even Nafissa, knew of it. If she kept steadfast in denial, there was no way they could proceed further with this. And the woman must be dying …
“I don’t understand you, my lord Abul,” she said with quiet dignity. “And I do not understand what I have done that you should treat me with such ignominy.”
“Don’t you?” he asked softly. “Don’t you, Aicha? Then allow me to explain. For these last many weeks you have been poisoning Sarita with the draught you have prepared for her against conception.” Having said that, he fell silent and watched her.
How had he guessed? But a guess was not evidence. She forced herself to meet his eye. “If I am so accused, I demand the right to face my accuser and hear the evidence that would prove the accusation.” She was still confident, still certain they could prove nothing. Only she herself could condemn herself.
Slowly, Abul stretched out his right arm, pointed his index finger at her. “You stand before your accuser. I and only I bring this accusation.”
Aicha wet her lips. What did it mean? Abul knew he could not accuse without good and sufficient reason. And he had only guesswork. She shook her head. “I deny the accusation, my lord Abul, and would ask for your evidence.”
Abul rose from his throne. “Give me the name of the poison, Aicha.”
Suddenly this was not the Abul she knew, the man whose body she had eased and pleasured, the man with whom she had passed many pleasant hours, the man whose child she had borne, the man who she had believed could be easily defeated with the right mix of skills and deception. No, the man towering above her was not that man. This was a veritable god of vengeance, an all-powerful, pitiless god facing her, repeating his demand in the same cold, inflexible, confident voice, the twin daggers of light boring into her soul.
Her voice shook slightly as she repeated her denial, telling herself that that was all she needed to do to defeat the accusation, to render powerless this vengeful god.
Abul looked at her for a terrifying moment, and she felt dehumanized by the look, as if he were stripping her of all vestige of humanity, rendering her no more than a clod of flesh, and she trembled with a terror unlike any she had known.
“Take her to the alcazaba,” Abul said, his voice indifferent. “Discover the name and bring it to me. I care only for the speed with which you unlock her memory.” He turned from her on the words and strode out of the hall as Aicha’s scream of realization lifted to the rafters.
The soldiers dragged her from the Mexuar and to the alcazaba. She had ceased to scream, indeed was almost lifeless in the grip of the guards, paralyzed by horror. But in the bowels of the fortress, in the dank chamber lit by the fitful, noisome flares of pitch torches, when they showed her what was there, talked of what they would use to unlock her memory, she began to scream again: a high-pitched screech of animal fear. When they strapped her to the stone table, she screamed the name of the poison, over and over in a desperate, pleading babble. To be certain, they used the bastinado, but when she repeated the same name like some incantation, they stopped after a few strokes. They left her strapped to the table in the underground chamber, and the officer went at a near run to carry the name to the caliph. It had been but half an hour since Abul had given his order and departed the Mexuar.
When Abul returned to his chamber, he found he could not remain there. Sarita’s anguish was more than he could endure as the physician and the two attendants administered the emetics that would rid her of whatever venom had not yet entered her system. She pleaded with Abul to make them stop, and he could only deny her. It seemed her drowned gaze blamed him for her agony. He went out into the antechamber, pacing restlessly, waiting for the information he knew would soon be brought to him. He did not believe Aicha was blessed with great fortitude.
He felt no compunction for employing the tools of the Inquisition to force her confession. He knew with the soul’s absolute knowledge that he would do anything to protect Sarita from harm … make any sacrifices, demand them of anyone, himself included. The knowledge didn’t strike him as strange. It seemed inevitable, had been since first he had seen her on the road. She was an inextricable part of him, woven into the sinews of his being, and if he could give his life for hers, he would do so without hesitation.
The rapid pounding of booted feet sounded on the marble paving of the portico, and the officer of the guard entered the antechamber. “The seed of the Tanghinia, my lord,” he said without preamble.
“You are certain she did not lie?”
The officer shook his head. He was experienced in such matters. “I believe it to be the truth.”
Abul nodded and turned back to his own chamber.
“My lord?” The officer spoke almost hesitantly.
Abul paused impatiently. “Well?”
“The lady Aicha, my lord. What is to be done with her?”
“Confine her in the tower of the cadi,” Abul said. “And the prince Boabdil with her.” Whatever plans he might have had for his son were now at an end. The child of such a woman could not be his heir, and mother and son might as well share exile. It would be the kindest option from every point of view. When he had time for reflection, he would decide on the form of that exile.
He entered his chamber and went swiftly to the divan. Sarita lay bloodless on the cushions, her lips blue-tinged, that wonderful mass of unruly flaming curls lank and lifeless, the flame extinguished. For a dreadful moment he thought she was already lost to him, but her fingertips fluttered in a feeble convulsive movement on the coverlet.
“The seed of the Tanghinia,” he said to the physician. “What can you do to counteract it?”
Muhamed Alahma pulled his beard and looked even graver than usual. “I do not know … it is a most pernicious, violent bane …” Muttering, he went away, leaving Abul and the two women in a fever of fearful uncertainty as Sarita lay comatose now. But at least she was at some kind of peace … Abul tried to draw comfort from the reflection.
Muhamed Alahma returned within an hour. He said nothing but carefully placed on Sarita’s tongue a bright yellow pastille. “I do not know if it will be efficacious,” he mumbled into his beard. “But I know of nothing else. It must be administered every three hours.”
“How will you know if it is beneficial?” Abul asked.
“If she does not die within the next few hours,” the physician said with blunt simplicity. “We can only wait.”
Chapter Seventeen
The serving woman laid the tray of food on a table in the lower court of the tower of the cadi and asked, “Is there anything else you wish for, lady?” The woman did not trouble to lower her eyes in the sultana’s presence, and her voice carried none of the respectful submission to which Aicha was accustomed.
The sultana’s palm itched to slap the insolence from her mouth, but the three soldiers who always accompanied visitors to the prisoner were standing by the door, and Aicha did not feel inclined to provide such an audience with an ugly and undignified scene. Her eyes flicked to the tray. Had Nafissa managed to conceal another message? The handmaid had proved astonishingly resourceful in the days since her mistress’s imprisonment, and seemed willing to continue being so for considerable monetary reward.
She said curtly, “Leave me,” and waited until the woman and her escort had left before bending over the tray, searching with eager, nimble fingers through the carefully folded linen napkins, where Nafissa had secreted the last message. Disappointingly, there was none.
Boabdil wriggled under her arm to examine the food on the tray and complained vociferously at the absence of his favorite sugared almonds.
“Don’t whine, Boabdil,” his mother said with a snap, and the boy’s mouth opened on an indignant wail. Aicha sighed. She was finding her son’s constant company less appealing than she
would have imagined.
Boabdil reached for a dish of plovers’ eggs, nesting attractively on a broad green fig leaf glistening with drops of water. The leaf slipped under his grasping fingers, and something white showed beneath. Aicha pushed his hands aside and edged her fingers under the leaf, drawing out a tightly rolled scrap of oiled silk. Leaving Boabdil to explore the culinary delights of the dinner tray, she unrolled the silk. Nafissa had done even better than expected. She had discovered from a watchman the entrance to one of the subterranean passages perforating the hill on which the Alhambra stood. The passage emerged beyond the city of Granada, in the hillside above the River Darro. If the sultana was willing to try her luck, an escape could be contrived with the aid of the watchman, who could be bought with the pigeon’s-egg ruby in the lady Aicha’s jewel casket.
Her jewel casket was suffering considerable depredations at Nafissa’s hands, Aicha reflected dourly. But she was in no position to bargain. Once she had effected her escape from the Alhambra, she would flee to her father with a tale of her treatment that would enrage him. He would seek vengeance on the man who from the depths of a mindless infatuation had disgraced his daughter without proof of wrongdoing—confessions wrenched through torment could be discounted. He would incite rebellion among the other Morisco-Spanish families, and Abul would be brought down.
She had not seen Abul since that dreadful morning in the Mexuar, but she knew he would not leave her and Boabdil permanently imprisoned in the tower of the cadi. It must be a temporary arrangement until he had decided what to do with them. If he removed them from the Alhambra, the chance for a successful escape would be much reduced.
What of Boabdil? How would he react to the dangers and discomforts of an escape? She regarded him thoughtfully. He was too busy devouring plovers’ eggs to be aware of her silent scrutiny. She must take him with her; he was vital to her future plans. Deposing Abul would have little point if there were not her own puppet to put in his place. But how good would the boy be under pressure? He whimpered too easily. Aicha knew this without Abul’s pointing it out as often as he had done, but it suited her plans better to keep the boy weak and dependent than to encourage him to stand on his own feet. She would just have to accept the disadvantages.
